The Amorous Amnesiac
by Pips Inkwell
Summary: Holmes gets knocked out during a fight with some interesting consequences...the title kind of gives it away. Set between the first and second movie. T to be safe. Finnished at last :)
1. Chapter 1

_Just a bit of fun whilst I wrestle with something more serious._ _Clearly, I dont own these characters. I hope you enjoy..._

**The Amorous Amnesiac**

Sherlock Holmes stood in the centre of the Punch Bowl, skin glistening with sweat and breathing heavily. His dazed opponent lay in a tangled heap at his feet, and with the dust only just beginning to settle the raucous crowd exploded about him with delight.

This was the second man to be felled by his fists within the space of ten minutes and after a period of absence from the ring he was pleased to discover he was still on top form.

But something was certainly amiss. Usually such moments of victory induced a pleasant feeling of elation, however on this occasion the effect had been most disappointing. So far tonight it had all seemed much too easy. Despite a second victory he could barely be bothered to raise his arms to the crowd.

Perhaps the felling of a third contender would induce the desired effects. He rather hoped so. At least the process was a distraction from earlier events…

-oooOooo-

The lounge at Baker Street had been bathed in the afternoon sun, its low light filtering gently through the windows and filling the room in a golden glow. Watson sat opposite Holmes with a nervous expression upon his face. He had finally found time in his hectic schedule to visit Holmes and make his request. Unfortunately the conversation had not been going as he had hoped.

'Please Holmes' he begged.

'No. Absolutely not.'

'Holmes….'

'I am not going to give you away Watson'

The Dr let out an exasperated sigh, he was starting to suspect the Holmes was intentionally making this difficult and consequently his patience was wearing thin.

'Holmes. That is not how it works. You would not be _giving me away_. The bride's father gives the _bride_ away. No one gives the _groom_ away. Besides, I am my own man. I give myself to whom I please.'

'Indeed' Holmes sniffed.

The detective looked away before the blues could command the browns. He would never let Watson know the power they had over him. To do so would be foolish, and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool.

'You have other friends…' he puffed around his pipe 'ask one of them.'

'Now you are being childish'

'I am not being childish'

'Yes you are'

'Am not'

'_Holmes!_' The Drs voice was so sharp the detective almost fell out of his chair. 'Please, for heavens sake would you stop dragging this out! There is no one else who fits the bill. You are my best friend. You are the only person I want to be stood by my side. If you refuse I will have to stand up there on my own. Is that what you want?'

Holmes considered the prospect for a moment. Watson stood alone to face such an…unfortunate circumstance. Finally he replied. 'No. That is not what I want.'

'Then say yes' Watson could see the detective weaken. 'I promise you Holmes. No toasts, no speeches. Just stand by my side in the church. Please. It would mean a great deal to me. Is it really too much to ask?'

Holmes waited a moment before he replied. He knew his answer and yet he was reluctant to give it. Finally he conceded. 'I still have reservations about this whole business'

'Is that a yes?' A smile had crept beneath the well-groomed moustache.

'One one condition' Holmes said as he looked up.

'Anything Old Chap. Name it.'

'Do not make me sing.'

So Watson promised not to make the detective sing, and Holmes found himself accepting. He would be the Best Man. In truth it would have torn him in two if Watson had asked anyone else. But he would never let Watson know that. Some things Watson could never know. Some things must be kept secret.

-oooOooo-

Opponent number three was a more deserving candidate. As he approached the ring the noise from the crowd lowered to an uncomfortable rumble. It was evident that several punters were having second thoughts. Undaunted, Holmes squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest in defiance and looked up at the hulk who towered before him.

At a rough estimate; six foot ten inches.

Size was of no importance however. Speed and agility were far more valuable. They were his weapons, and he relished the chance to test them to their limits. Adrenaline began to pulse through his veins. Marvellous. This was exactly what he had been searching for.

Of course, if Watson had been present he would have taken a dim view. But Watson was not there. Since his involvement with Mary he had become rather dull. The sport he had once attended and quite willingly (and reliably) placed bets upon he now declared a health hazard and refused to attend. It was disappointing, as in truth it was not the same without him. Nothing was quite the same without the good Dr.

The bell chimed, the crowd roared, and Holmes was drawn from his thoughts to raise his fists in a defensive stance. He ducked the first swing like a nimble athlete and keeping light upon his feet he dodged to and frow causing the features of the hulk before him to furrow with agitation. Huge fists swung through the air repeatedly, but each time they missed their target. Slowly the crowd began to regain faith, and the cheering noise rose into the rafters.

As Holmes took a moment to contemplate his own brilliance a large fist swung squarely at his jaw. He ducked to avoid it, planting a swift jab into the belly of his opponent as he did so, before turning like a spinning top and darting under the outstretched arm. _Dam_ he was good, he smiled to himself. If only Watson was there to witness it.

As he spun around his sharp eyes scanned the crowd. It comprised the usual assortment of drunks and whores and petty criminals, all swigging ale and fighting against themselves for the best view. They were a rum bunch, drawn from the gutters of society, all jeering and laughing and baying for blood. Suddenly he spotted something out of place, which distracted him somewhat from the task at hand.

Amidst the chaos was a tanned and handsome face. It bore a fine moustache, an angry frown and a pair of stunningly blue eyes.

Stunning being the operative word.

-oooOooo-

"Holmes? Can you hear me?" Watson asked as he crouched beside the motionless form of his friend, who had been lifted from the ring and unceremoniously dumped upon a bench in a corner of the bar. Watson let his fingers brush through dark strands of hair, careful to avoid the deep cut upon his temple. "Come on Old Chap" He coaxed anxiously "Stop hiding."

Their conversation that afternoon had left Watson with a lingering sense of unease. On reflection he realised his visit to Baker Street had been rather abrupt, and he had left all too swiftly as soon as he had accomplished his primary objective. He had spent little time with Holmes recently, the preparations for the wedding and his new life with Mary, together with the increased number of patients attending his now flourishing practice had left little room for anything else. As he had sat at the dinner table that evening, listening to his fiancé enthuse over various arduous ceremonial details (for which he could summon up no enthusiasm) he realised with a pang of guilt that he had not even asked Holmes a single question about himself or his current case. No wonder he had seemed a little put out.

Keen to make amends Watson had returned to Baker Street that evening, only to be greeted by a surprisingly distressed Mrs Hudson who had needed little prompting to disclose his friend's whereabouts. He had set out at once in an attempt to retrieve the situation. Little had he known his presence would lead to this.

"Holmes I am serious. If you can hear me open your eyes"

With the final fight of the evening ending rather abruptly the disgruntled crowds had filtered away and the staff were now locking up for the night. A couple of punters loitered nearby, seemingly concerned at the state of their favourite competitor. In Watson's opinion they had very good reason, for Holmes had now been completely senseless for almost fifteen minutes. Having treated far too many broken ribs over the years, he had long since feared an event such as this. Since leaving their shared accommodations, and knowing he would no longer be close at hand to repair the damage, had tried to persuade Holmes to quit the ring. He had been led to believe he had done so. Evidently it was not the case.

As Watson began to consider taking his friend to the hospital, the detective finally began to stir against his touch. A moment later two large brown eyes were gazing upwards, blinking softly before they focused upon him.

'Watson' he said with a wayward smile 'You …look …._gorgeous'_

'Dam it Holmes!' his friend exclaimed, a wave of relief flooding his features. Leaning back a little he ran his hand through his own hair and took a deep breath. 'Don't ever do that to me again'

'For you my dear, anything' the detective replied as he attempted to sit up.

'Oh no you don't' Watson placed his hand firmly upon his friends chest. 'Stay exactly where you are. You took a mighty blow Holmes, I want you to stay there for a moment.' Slowly he eased his hand away. 'How are you feeing?' He asked as he studied him closely.

'Absolutely splendid' beamed the invalid.

'Are you sure? You look a little dazed' Watson replied as he noted a sluggish response of the pupils, and an unusually elevated pulse. He held his hand aloft and extended his fingers. 'How many?' he asked.

There was a pregnant pause during which Holmes glanced around the room, viewing the remaining stragglers suspiciously, as if only just registering their presence.

'Come on now' Watson coaxed 'pay attention.'

'Six' came the distracted reply.

'Holmes. Stop playing the fool, quite frankly I am not in the mood. Look at my hand.'

Holmes returned his gaze to the man who leant over him, holding his hand in front of his face. He focussed upon the fingers.

'How many?' The Dr repeated.

'Three' He answered with a lazy smile, gazing at them strangely, before raising his hand and gently stroking his own fingers against them 'Of all your digits Watson, these are my favourites'.

'Really' the Dr replied with a frown, not entirely sure how to respond. Confusion was to be expected of course. The infuriating fool was lucky it was nothing more serious. Once again he wondered how such an amazingly intelligent man could be so bloody reckless. Did he not realise he could have gotten himself killed?

'Holmes' Watson managed in a carefully controlled tone. 'I thought you had given all this up?'

Again there was a pregnant pause. The large brown eyes, which possessed a strange power he would never let Holmes know about, were now fixed firmly upon him. His friend had never looked at him in such a way and he began to feel slightly uncomfortable.

'Holmes? Why are you looking at me like that?'

'Watson. You look magnificent when your cheeks are flushed. Did you know that?'

'I think its time I took you home.'

'I could not agree more'

-oooOooo-

TBC…please review, it would make me very happy :)


	2. Chapter 2

**The Amorous Amnesiac **

**Chapter 2**

Watson monitored his friend closely during the short ride back to Baker Street. The motion of the carriage had quickly lulled the detective into a light doze, causing him to lean heavily against the Dr's side, his head perched precariously upon his shoulder. The warm hand lain casually across the Dr's thigh was slightly beyond the regular, however it was clear that Holmes was not yet in full command of his faculties - their conversation at the Punch Bowl had demonstrated as much - and therefore Watson was happy to excuse this minor indiscretion. Besides, it had been a rather stressful day, and he had to admit their closeness was proving rather comforting. The Dr only moved the stray hand to a more respectable position as they pulled up to the curb at 221b.

'Holmes?' he coaxed, gently shaking him by the shoulder.

The detective mumbled before opening his eyes. 'Is is morning?' he croaked sleepily.

'No Old Boy, we are home. Come on, up you get'

Watson took his arm and together they dismounted the carriage in a slow and cautious fashion. It was only as the Watson released his hold and delved a hand into his pocket to find the cabbies fee that Holmes lurched forward unexpectedly, expelling his meagre stomach contents into the gutter in a rather spectacular fashion. The Dr caught him before he took a following nose-dive, and steady arms held fast as the detective shook his way through the coughing fit that followed.

"Easy now. Take deep breaths" Watson soothed as he circled a palm upon his friends back, realising how much weight he had lost and wondering why the devil he had not noticed it earlier.

As the carriage drew away the cabbie shot them a disapproving look. No doubt he had formed entirely the wrong conclusions. If one knew no better, it would be easy to assume that Holmes was nothing more than a pitiful drunk.

A guilty feeling welled in Watson's chest. His unexpected arrival at the ring had most certainly contributed to the current state of affairs. He resolved to make an appropriate apology once Holmes had regained his wits and he would remain with him until he did so. After all, to leave the man in such a state would go against all his better judgements, both as a Dr and as a friend. Mary would understand, and if she didn't….well….he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

'Apologies Watson. I believe I have consumed something unsavoury' Holmes said as he released his grip upon his friends coat sleeve. Slowly the Dr eased him up and they began to climb the steps.

It was at that moment Mrs Hudson threw open the front door, and the hall light spilled out upon them. She had waited up for their return, and Watson felt a surge of gratitude towards her. Despite their tempestuous relationship, the dear woman clearly had a soft spot for the detective, and since leaving their shared lodgings it had been reassuring to know of her continued presence. As her breath misted in the chilled night air she pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and ushered them inside, closing the door firmly behind them as they crossed the threshold.

'Good Heavens' she sighed as she soaked in the sight of her wayward lodger.

Holmes, whose eyes were slowly adjusting to the bright light of the hallway, immediately tensed at her feminine tones. He raised his arm and pointed an unsteady finger in her direction.

'Seize her at once Watson!' he exclaimed, his heartbeat having risen so rapidly it threatened to burst from his neck. 'She has attempted my demise by culinary means! It is not the first time…'

'Steady on Old Chap!' The Dr interjected hastily, alarmed at the sudden outburst. Grabbing Holmes arm he pulled the offending finger out of Mrs Hudson's startled face 'You have not been poisoned Holmes, you have been concussed'

Watson's words acted like a balm, and the detective immediately calmed upon hearing this clarification. He stilled at once and the tension in his body melted away almost as quickly as it had arrived.

It had been almost a year since the poisoning, a rather alarming affair that was certainly not the result of Mrs Hudson's cooking. Holmes, once recovered, had deduced the blaggard responsible who was swiftly placed behind bars. However, the subject remained a sore point at 221b.

Mrs Hudson had taken a step back and was now holding a trembling hand to her face. Her skin had paled enough for the Dr to question which one of the two most required his support.

'Please forgive him Nanny' he said with a despairing look 'I'm afraid he is not himself at present. Your cooking is, and has always been, truly excellent.' He added with a smile.

Watson's natural charm seemed to do the trick, and it was with relief he noted the colour return to Mrs Hudson's cheeks, albeit in a flush.

Keen to avoid any further misunderstandings he seized Holmes arm, pulled it over his shoulder, and made a hasty retreat towards the stairs.

'I have tended to the fire' the landlady called after them. 'Will you be needing anything else?'

'You are a marvel Mrs Hudson!' Watson replied as they began to climb the seventeen steps. 'Thank-you, please do not trouble yourself any further, I am sure we will manage.'

As they turned on the landing Holmes breath traced softly down the Dr's neck. 'Watson' he sighed 'You smell divine.'

The tingle that travelled down Watson's spine caused him to pause a moment to collect himself. Fortunately Mrs Hudson had set off towards the kitchen and had missed the somewhat inappropriate exchange.

'Is that so Holmes?' his friend said wearily. 'I wish I could say the same for you'

The detective sniffed. 'Should I take a bath?' he queried.

Watson could not help raising an eyebrow - Holmes had indeed been severely affected.

Wasting no time he directed the patient towards the washroom upon the second floor, and the aforementioned ablutions were conducted under his watchful supervision. He had seen Holmes naked before of course, and as a medical man such displays of the human form were commonplace. It was true that Holmes was not a shy man, however when he rose from the bathtub and, in search of his dressing gown, set out across the landing in his altogether, the Dr was slightly taken aback.

Had Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs at that particular moment she would have gotten slightly more than she bargained for…

-oooOooo-

_'Vous êtes pour moi le plus bel homme…Le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point…'_

'Holmes…' Watson let out an exhasperated sigh and lowered his needle and thread. 'I cannot do this if you wont keep still. And would you please stop speaking French, you know I cannot understand you'

The Dr was knelt upon the hearthrug. The detective, now safely clothed in pyjama bottoms and wrapped in his dressing gown, was seated upon the sofa amidst a nest of cushions.

Damp hair had been swept from back to reveal the angry gash upon his brow, to which the Dr was attempting to attend. Holmes had always been a difficult patient and tonight was proving no exception. The procedure was taking far longer than strictly necessary and although languages were an area of weakness for Watson, he had gathered enough to realise his friend's faculties remained somewhat compromised.

'French?' the detective queried with a look of innocence, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes.

'Yes Holmes, you are speaking French.' Watson replied, placing the needle upon the side table and studying him more closely.

'If that is so, it is because you inspire me to do so…' Holmes said as he gazed back intently 'It is entirely your own fault…'

'My own fault?'

'Yes my dear fellow. You must realise that your eyes hold unusual powers. _Vos yeux, j'en rêve jour et nuit...'_

'_Holmes_….' Watson cut in once again. His tone rather more agitated than he had intended. It was getting late and he was extremely tired.

The detective had raised his brows in surprise, a hurt expression manifesting itself upon his features.

'I am sorry Holmes, I do not mean to….please just be quiet for a few moments whilst I finish off.'

'As you wish' the detective blinked before moving his gaze towards the fire.

Silence ensued as Watson completed his task, his noble brow furrowed with concentration as he expertly repaired the damage. As instructed Holmes did not flinch throughout the proceedings and remained perfectly still and silent, the only sound in the room the soft crackling of the fire.

Once finished Watson sat back upon his haunches and regarded his friend. Holmes had always been a rather peculiar fellow but his current state was becoming rather disconcerting. Although the dirt and sweat had been washed away his dazed expression remained.

'How are you feeling Old Boy?' he asked with concern. At first there was no response, his eyes not leaving the fire.

'Holmes….' Watson pressed, laying a hand gently upon his arm.

The touch drew the detectives eyes from the flames and he looked up at the Dr.

'No need to fret Mother Hen. I can assure you I am quite all right.' He said with a soft smile.

For a moment the Holmes of old seemed to have returned. On impulse, and with a deep-seated need to clear the air, Watson took a breath and spoke.

'Holmes, I must apologise for this afternoon. I am aware that my visit was rather brief. I do not blame you for….'

He immediately realised his error and stopped in his tracks. He had never seen his friend in such an obvious state of confusion.

'Visit?' Holmes said haltingly 'Watson…you live here my dear fellow…'

-oooOooo-

_Thanks for your reviews guys! Its great to get feedback and they inspire me to write more :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello lovely readers, thank-you for your following and your reviews so far, they really mean a lot. Sorry for the delayed update, I have writer's block at the moment and the sun came out too so it has been a bit of a distraction! Particular thanks to Jinx, who helped me correct my French in the last chapter – this one is for you.._

**The Amorous Amnesiac **

**Chapter 3**

Although possessing higher than average intelligence, in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson often felt like a bumbling fool.

It was never more true than on this occasion.

_Watson…you live here my dear fellow…_

The room had fallen silent, the only noise the soft crackling of the fire within the grate, but the words Holmes had spoken seemed to linger in the air between them like fragile wisps of smoke. As they slowly dissolved away all that remained was the look of confusion upon his friend's face, which gradually morphed into a somewhat wary frown.

'Watson?' Holmes said, his voice wavering with uncertainty 'What is going on?'

His eyes had become large and dark and uncharacteristically lost, and as they fixed upon the Dr their power threatened to unman him completely. Forced to look away, Watson began to study the hearthrug beneath his knees. Passing a shaky hand through his hair he silently berated himself for such a foolish error.

Memory loss was a common symptom of head injuries and one he should have anticipated. For a moment he considered an attempt to conceal his mistake and to go along with the notion that he still lived at Baker Street, at least until Holmes had gathered his wits, however this thought was swiftly dismissed. Although no expert on amnesia, his medical instincts suggested to him it would be unwise to promote such a falsehood, and besides, he had never lied to Holmes and he certainly did not wish to begin doing so now. The truth is was then. Summoning his courage he looked up.

'Holmes' He said slowly, aware of the need for caution 'I moved out of here three months ago'

The words felt uncomfortable in his ears, and as he knelt before his friend in the place which had been his home for so long, he realised that part of him, the part that missed his former life more than he was able to admit, wished it was not the truth at all.

'I beg your pardon' Holmes replied warily, his breath quickening as his hands grasped at the cushions beneath him. 'There appears to be some sort of error. This is 221b Baker Street is it not?'

'Yes it is Holmes' Watson answered steadily, realising his friend would need further information. 'However, I no longer live here Old Boy. I am engaged to be married. I left Baker Street to move in with…. Holmes…. what are you doing?'

In a sudden flurry of activity, the detective had scrambled backwards over the sofa and was now darting towards the far side of the room, his eyes not leaving the Dr for a moment as he did so. Alarmed by this sudden turn of events, Watson rose to his feet and began to step forwards in an attempt to calm his friend however before he had a chance to leave the hearthrug Holmes had whipped open the desk drawer and seized his pistol from its depths. A second later Watson found the weapon pointed squarely at his chest.

'Do not move!' Holmes ordered as he swayed precariously upon the spot, the sudden rise from the sofa having aggravated his condition.

As instructed, and with his heart now pounding fiercely inside his chest, the Dr froze. The detective however continued to sway precariously.

'I repeat…' Holmes ordered once again. 'Do. Not. Move.'

'Holmes. I am not moving.' Watson clarified in his defence.

The detective blinked several times, evidently encountering some visual disturbance, the weighty revolver shaking slightly in his grasp. After taking a moment to clear his vision and steady himself, he began to advance towards the Dr upon somewhat shaky legs. His eyes were wide, his hair stuck waywardly about his head and his dressing gown, which had fallen open, exposed his bare chest which rose and fell rather rapidly.

'Holmes. Please. You must calm down.' Watson instructed in the steadiest voice he could muster.

'A most striking resemblance…. quite extraordinary' the detective muttered as he moved closer, studying the Dr intently. 'Hoffmanstahl truly has excelled himself.'

'Hoffmanstahl? Holmes what the devil are you on about?'

'I was a fool not to notice the signs….' The detective continued. 'The overly generous application of cologne. The increased dimension to the waistline. The intensity of the eyes…a most vivid blue…lenses perhaps? Sideburns…to cover the scarring …'

Watson was often concerned for his friend's mental health, but it seemed the injury had caused Holmes to loose the plot completely. As he spoke, he waved the gun about in a rather alarming fashion, pointing it at the relevant locations upon Watson's person. Aware that any sudden movement could result in an unfavourable outcome, the Dr remained perfectly still.

'Holmes for God sake put the gun down before somebody gets hurt'. He begged, hopeful his words would reach his friend and have the desired effect, however the detective continued regardless, seemingly oblivious to his plea.

'Your likeness is remarkable, however your research is fundamentally flawed.' Holmes said in the condescending tone he usually reserved for the criminal element. He had come to a halt a few feet in front of the Dr, the light from the fire danced in his eyes. 'My Watson lives _here_' he said, jabbing the gun towards the hearthrug 'and I can assure you, that despite his regrettable weakness for the female sex, he is by no means foolish enough to engage with one in _matrimony_'

'Holmes…'

'Where is he?' He had raised the gun once more, and there was panic in his eyes.

'Holmes. Calm down….'

'What have you done with him?' He asked breathlessly.

'Holmes its me. Its Watson.'

'If he is harmed in any way then you will suffer the consequences…I ….I demand you take me to him immediately' a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face as his finger shook upon the trigger.

'Holmes. Please. I am right here. You must calm down. I know you are confused but you _must_ focus' Watson instructed. 'You have hit your head Holmes. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Think. If I still lived here then where are my things?'

The detective had raised his hand to the wound upon his forehead, his fingers tracing over the lump and the stitches upon his temple. Slowly he cast his eyes towards the bookcase in the far corner of the room. It had once contained the Dr's possessions, his novels and textbooks, files and medical equipment. It had remained empty and untouched since he left and a fine dust now covered its bare surfaces.

'They have gone' Holmes stated simply, as if noticing the fact for the very first time. Their absence seemed to strike a cord somewhere in the damaged pathways of his mind, for as he looked back at the man who stood before him, there was a mix of confusion and desolation upon his face. 'Watson?' he questioned tentatively.

'I can assure you Holmes, it is me.' Watson said softly. 'I am perfectly safe, as are you.'

It appeared they were making some progress however some doubt remained, as the detective had not yet lowered his pistol. It was only natural that Holmes would require conclusive evidence.

Considering what solid proof he could provide Watson was slightly taken aback to find his friend reaching forwards and placing a cold hand upon his face. Slowly Holmes traced his fingers along the side of Watson's neck and across his jaw as if searching for something. Seemingly satisfied at his findings, or lack thereof, the detective made one final investigation. In a swift movement, and before the Dr registered what was happening, Holmes had reached down and deftly unbuckled his belt, pulling it free and causing Watson's trousers to drop to the floor.

'Holmes.. what the devil are you…'

The detective was on his knees now, his outstretched hand tracing gently across the lines of damaged skin. The scar was an ugly one, as had been the wound. The injury had ended John Watson's military career and sent him home a broken man. It had caused him to search for shared lodgings. It had brought them together.

As the gun slipped from his friends grip and fell upon the hearthrug, it appeared its presence was all the proof he needed.

-oooOooo-

_I hope you enjoyed…..To be continued…._


	4. Chapter 4

_To the readers on story alert, I'm sorry for the extended hiatus! I have been trying to finnish this for a while but my muse kept wandering off. I think its back now. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)_

**The Amorous Amnesiac**

**Chapter 4**

When Watson awoke that particular morning beside the woman who would soon become his wife, he had not expected his day to end in such a fashion. As the mantle clock struck midnight, he found himself stood in the lounge at Baker Street, his trousers slumped in a heap about his ankles and Sherlock Holmes knelt before him on the hearthrug.

The detective's hand slowly fell from the distinctive scar that marked the Dr's thigh.

'It is you' he stated.

'Yes Holmes….It is me' Watson replied, clearing his throat.

With his identity thus confirmed, and in an attempt to preserve his modesty, Watson reached down to retrieve his trousers.

He found his fingers fumbled as he fastened his belt. Usually he would have chastised himself for such a display of nervous tension, however considering what had just occurred he granted himself a reprieve. After all, being held at gunpoint was never a pleasant experience. Even less so when the individual wielding it was one's closest friend.

As his heartbeat returned to a more respectable rhythm, Watson endeavoured to collect his thoughts. The notion that Holmes could mistake him for a doppelganger seemed entirely absurd, however since the unfortunate incident at the Punch Bowl, the detective had been far from himself. Confusion, memory loss, a somewhat…altered …emotional state, these were all typical symptoms of severe concussion. His degree of paranoia however seemed just a tad excessive. In fact, it was true to say Holmes _had_ been rather edgy of late. The last time they had ventured out together he had insisted on sporting a somewhat dowdy set of tweeds and ludicrously wild fake moustache. Initially Watson had presumed it was a joke at his expense, however Holmes had insisted the measure completely necessary. When questioned he had refused to elaborate, and knowing how fruitless it was to probe him on such matters Watson had dropped the subject. He was beginning to think he should have pushed the a little further….

Distracted, it took several moments for Watson to register that the room had fallen silent, the only sound that of his own breathing and the fire gently crackling in the grate. Somewhat perturbed he looked downwards and was alarmed to discover his patients eyes had glazed over. Furthermore he was swaying rather precariously towards the hearth.

Fearing the worst, the Dr fell to his knees.

'Holmes…. _Holmes!_' he exclaimed, grasping him by the shoulders and drawing him upright. The action was met with a startled flinch and a sudden draw of breath, before a pair of wide eyes turned towards him.

'Watson' said the invalid, in a somewhat shaky voice 'I feel a little queer...'

'I am not surprised' the Dr replied with concern, cautiously raising a hand and placing skilled fingertips against his patient's neck. 'Your pulse is racing…'

'You left' the detective stated in disbelief.

'Yes Old Fellow, I'm afraid so.' Watson replied.

'To be married?'

'Yes. That is correct.'

'To a _Woman_.' the injured brow furrowed with disbelief.

'Of course to a…'

Watson cut himself short. His friend was in a state of shock and patience and understanding were called for. Summoning these qualities he observed his companion closely. The mounting alarm upon his visage was somewhat disconcerting.

'I am sorry Holmes' Watson said earnestly 'I did not mean to cause distress. Had I known that your memory…I should have anticipated this.'

The detective's eyes had fallen on his friends chest, fingers grasping at the cotton of his shirtsleeve.

'I have gone mad' he stated.

'Absolutely not!' Watson exclaimed, aghast.

'You must take me to Bedlam Immediately.._._'

'Holmes. Look at me' The Dr urged, placing a hand upon his cheek. Dark eyes rose reluctantly, their power magnified in their distress. 'I will hear no more words to that effect, do I make myself clear? The symptoms you are experiencing are perfectly natural given the severity of your concussion. Memory loss and confusion are to be expected. I appreciate these feelings may seem foreign - however I can assure you there is nothing to fear, and you have most certainly _not_lost your mind…'

'I could have shot you my dear…'

'Yes but you didn't, and there is no harm done' the Dr reassured.

'These are dangerous times Watson - I had to be certain….' The detective explained.

'Of course you did' Watson replied with an understanding smile. The fact he had no idea what his friend was referring to seemed of little consequence.

'Lets move away from the fire' he coaxed. The patient nodded and they rose to their feet, slowly moving away from the hearth and towards the comfort and safety of sofa. As they did so Holmes tightened his grip upon Watson's arm.

'Where is Gladdy?' he inquired, glancing about the carpet.

'Gladdy?'

'Is he?…._Oh Good Lord_…. Did I?…_I cannot have_…This is most regrettable…'

'Holmes - calm down - Gladstone is perfectly fine' Watson reassured hastily 'He came to live with Mary and I.'

'Then I haven't…?'

'Of course you haven't' Watson replied as he eased his charge onto the sofa.

The patient gripped the armrest, anxious thoughts writ large upon his features. Indecision caused the Dr's brow to crease.

'I think you require a sedative' he said at length.

'I concur' replied the invalid.

Rummaging in his medical bag, Watson produced a small glass vial. 'Just a little' he said, uncorking it carefully. In a swift movement the detective leant forwards, pilfered the receptacle and downed its contents.

'_Holmes!_' his friend exclaimed.

'I have a tolerance' said the detective as he sank into his cushions, eyelids drooping.

'You also have concussion….' The Dr pointed out, rising to fetch a remedial glass of water.

Moving across the room his eyes caught upon the weapon which lay discarded on the hearthrug. Intent on placing it in a secure location, he leant to pick it up. However, as he weighed the pistol in his hand and flipped the cylinder it became apparent the action was unnecessary.

'Holmes' he said calmly 'your gun is not loaded.'

Watson turned to find his friend's eyes closed, his breath soft and even in restful sleep. Crouching before the sofa, he studied him closely - a man like no other, who could inspire and infuriate him in equal measure, and he found that despite the circumstances he was unable to subdue the smile that crept beneath his moustache.

-oooOooo-

Once assured his patient had not drugged himself into a permanent state of oblivion, Watson hurried down the seventeen stairs. He would need to remain at Baker Street for the foreseeable future, which meant that word should be sent to Cavendish Place. Reaching the hall he was surprised to find warm light still emanated from beneath the kitchen door, and as he entered Mrs Hudson soon informed him that she had sent word herself. The knowledge that his fiancé had been informed of his whereabouts was a great relief.

'How is he now?' the landlady enquired.

'Somewhat confused' the Dr replied. 'I have given him a sedative and he is sleeping, but I must not leave him for long.'

Pacing the kitchen, Watson briefly outlined the events of the evening and the current state of his patient. As he did so, the landlady had began to prepare a tray of tea and cake, her patriotic response to a crisis maintained despite the hour.

'Sit down before you wear a hole in the rug' she instructed firmly 'This will only take a moment'

Knowing not to argue Watson drew a chair from beneath the table and slumped into it with a weary sigh. The day had been long, and its events had proven rather exhausting. The heavy feeling that now weighed upon his shoulders was certainly not helping. Choosing Holmes as his Best Man had been a simple decision. There was no doubt, it had to be Holmes - no other man would ever hold the title. However, the detective could be rather childish at times, and his ill-disguised misgivings on the subject of marriage had made the matter rather difficult. Finally Watson had plucked up the courage to ask, and having attained the answer he required he had left swiftly before his friend could change his mind. He should have stayed longer, he realised that now. It had been a selfish action, very likely leading the impromptu visit to the Punch Bowl. Even if this was not the case, his unexpected arrival there had most certainly caused a distraction, and the resulting blow had felled the detective like a stone.

'You must not blame yourself' the landlady instructed, prompted by his troubled expression. 'He's a grown man and should know better'

As Mrs Hudson cut two large slices of his favourite fruitcake and placed them on a plate, Watson attempted to dislodge the image of his friend sprawled unresponsive in the dirt.

'I was under the impression he had given it up.' he said thoughtfully, watching her pour the milk.

'You must not fret. He has a thick skull. I'm sure he will be fine' she said with an air of confidence the Dr wished he shared.

'My brother George fell from a tree once' the landlady continued in a rare disclosure of her personal affairs. 'He struck his head on a bucket and thought he was a toad. Hopped about for a day or two, but it didn't last.'

With her task complete she wiped her hands upon her apron and pushed the tray towards him.

'Thank you Mrs Hudson' Watson said, rising from the chair with a smile 'Whatever would we do without you.'

-oooOooo-

Slowly Watson climbed the stairs, the laden tray balanced carefully in his hands. He crossed the landing and nudged the door open with his foot. Entering the room he halted mid-step, his mouth agape.

The sofa was empty.

Depositing his tray on the dresser Watson stepped forwards, his eyes scanning the room.

'Holmes?' he said 'Where are you Old Chap?'

His heart began to race.

The amount of chloral his friend had ingested would have rendered a man twice his size unconscious for several hours. However, certain regrettable tendencies had caused the detective to acquire an unnaturally high tolerance to chemical substances. Seemingly it had not been enough.

Standing in the centre of the room, Watson attempted not to panic. With the front and back doors locked his patient could not have gone far. It was likely he had simply retired to his room.

Identifying this as the most likely explanation, Watson approached the bedroom door and rapped his knuckles upon it.

'Holmes? Are you in there?' He asked. He raised his hand to knock once more but thought better of it. 'I'm coming in Old Boy' he warned as he turned the handle.

The door opened to a dark and empty room.

A frantic search of the study ensued, followed by the bathroom, both of which were ominously empty. Halting on the landing, with the urge to panic having risen to unmanageable levels, the Dr considered his next move. Deciding to alert Mrs Hudson to the crisis he turned on his heal to descend the stairs, however as he did so he noticed on the landing above a door was ajar. It was the door to his old room and cool air emanated from within, creeping down the staircase and along his spine.

A sickening feeling settled in the depths of his stomach.

This would not be the first time Holmes had used a second floor window to exit the premises, however on previous occasions he had not been severely concussed and drugged to the eyeballs.

'_Holmes!_'

He mounted the stairs two at a time and launched himself through the door. Dashing to the open window he peered down into the gloom. '_Oh God_.' He muttered into the darkness, imagining his friends crumpled form on cobbles below.

All common sense abandoned he poised himself upon the sill and prepared to leap.

He was halted however by a warm breath on the back of his neck.

Recoiling in alarm he stumbled backwards, heart leaping from his chest. 'Dam It Holmes!' he exclaimed.

The detective stood behind him in the cool moonlight, his dressing gown askew a dazed expression on his features. Engulfed by a wave of relief, and with his adrenaline at an unnatural peak, Watson was momentarily torn between embracing and throttling him.

Resisting the urge to do either he turned his attention to more practical matters. 'What are you doing up here?' He asked 'And why the devil is the window open? Your going to catch your death!'

He turned to pull the window closed. It was a task he had performed a thousand times during his years at Baker Street and the wooden frame still moulded to his fingertips. He ran his thumb across the sill, and took a moment to compose himself. It should have been obvious. His friend had awoken alone and confused, and had climbed the stairs in search of him. It was only natural considering the circumstances, and it most certainly wasn't his fault. Having regained his calm the Dr turned back.

'I have some…disturbance…' explained his patient dozily, waving an unsteady hand about his head in demonstration.

Watson approached and stilled it with his own. 'Its alright Old Chap' he said with a smile. 'Lets go back downstairs. Our tea will be getting cold.'

-oooOooo-

_What did you think? Please review if you get a chance, its great to get feedback :) The final chapter is almost done and should be up soon..._


	5. Chapter 5

**The Amorous Amnesiac**

**Chapter 5**

The consumption of tea and cake did much to restore the Dr's reserves together with his patience, a virtue with which he had been naturally blessed.

He was surprised yet relieved when his friend indulged in the repast with equal amounts of vigour, and as a result the effects of the chloral had begun to abate. With the detective's awareness slowly returning a series of enquiries had begun. However, with tangled neurones in operation, their nature had become increasingly questionable.

'You are certain?' he asked, apparently unconvinced

'Yes Holmes. I am absolutely certain'

'Investigations will be required…'

'That would be most inappropriate' the Dr replied calmly. 'As a qualified physician I can confirm that Mary is most certainly female'

The detective shifted uneasily upon the sofa. 'Your safety is at stake Watson. I am not prepared to risk…'

'Holmes. Please.' The Dr interjected 'I am touched by your concern. However I can assure you that my future wife poses no threat whatsoever to my person. She is not under the influence of hypnotic suggestion. Or illegal substances. And she certainly has no connections with the criminal underworld. For your own well being, I must advise you cease this line of thought.'

The detective paused. Evidence of tangled thoughts plagued his visage. Eventually he spoke.

'Our friendship' he said unexpectedly.

'Our friendship is not in question' Watson replied, mildly alarmed by this new direction.

Keen to steer their conversation into less emotive territory he brushed the cake crumbs from his front and leant forward, placing his empty plate upon the tea tray. 'I feel like a little more, how about you?' he asked hopefully, in a combined attempt to distract and fortify his friend.

There was a brief silence.

'If that is truly what you wish, I shall attempt to oblige' the detective replied, with a certain degree of trepidation.

'Sorry Holmes, what was that?' the Dr queried. He was tired and weary, and although he refused to admit to it, since a certain warehouse explosion his hearing had not been up to scratch.

His friend was viewing him strangely, large eyes expectant and a little fearful. Sensing he had missed something Watson focussed his attention.

'Holmes?' he asked 'Are you quite alright?'

'_Vos yeux ont des appas que j'aime et que je prise'_ the detective replied intently.

'Holmes. You know I cannot….' Watson began to protest.

'Very well.' The invalid replied, resolve in the set of his jaw. Sliding from the sofa, he fell to his knees with a bump.

'Steady On Old Boy…' Watson warned, taken a little by surprise.

The detective simply cleared his throat and took the Drs hand.

'Watson' he began 'I hold you in the highest regard. Your eyes possess charms that I love and cherish...'

'Holmes what are you…?'

'Please. Let me to finish.' The detective shifted upon his knee, tightening his grip upon the Dr's hand. 'I cannot allow our friendship to be jeopardised by a jezebel. If it is _more_ you seek then I shall endeavour to provide…'

'Holmes…'

'Though this is not my natural inclination, I am by no means immune to your physical charms….'

'Holmes…'

'With the correct instruction, I am certain that….'

'_Fruitcake_' Watson ejaculated.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I meant more _cake _Holmes…'

An awkward silence ensued. The fires embers crumbled softly in the grate. In the street below a hansom grumbled past.

'No thank you' the detective said.

As he turned away with visible relief, his face remained troubled; afflicted with a look the Dr had seen before, if only once or twice. It was the look his friend sported when solutions slipped from his grasp.

It was then that Watson realised.

'Holmes' he said patiently, waiting for him to meet his gaze. Large brown orbs raised to met with ones of clear blue sincerity 'I need you to listen very carefully….'

-oooOooo-

Watson awoke slowly, drawn from sleep by the morning half-light that filtered through the bedroom curtains. His senses gradually returning, he was surprised to find that the mattress beneath him was firmer than usual, so too the form that curled against his side…

Momentarily flummoxed his noble brow furrowed. He turned to his companion. An angry bruise and neat row of stitches gradually came into focus, and with it the memories of the previous night. His odious visit to the Punch Bowl and its unfortunate result. His anxious vigil as his friend returned to consciousness. Their eventful return to Baker Street…. All told it had been rather exhausting. Not surprising then the current state of affairs. He had not intended to sleep of course, merely to encourage his patient to that end. A mission he had successfully achieved.

Deep in slumber, Holmes had rarely looked so peaceful. His face was calm in sleep, it's strong lines relaxed and unguarded and, for want of a better word - human.

Their conversation had been short and somewhat one-sided. Having clarified his own inclinations and the fact that his future wife was not a jezebel, Watson had told the detective what their friendship meant to him. Furthermore he made it clear that he would never let anything, or anyone, jeopardise something he held so dear. The detective had never been comfortable with the softer emotions, and under normal circumstances would have been repelled by such a sentimental declaration. However these were not normal circumstances, and the Dr had watched as his words were soaked up like a sponge. In truth, and though he would never admit to it, Watson had found it a somewhat cathartic experience. It was a pity therefore that his friend was unlikely to benefit in such a manner…

Watson's anxiety would certainly have been greater had it not been for the comforting weight of the arm draped across his middle, and the soft breath that emanated from its sleep ruffled owner. He indulged in the sight for a moment, before giving way to medical necessity and lifting a hand to inspect the injury.

'Holmes? Come on Old Fellow. Wakey wakey..'

The detective winced at the touch and shifted slightly in his sleep, emitting a mumble into the sheets. Smiling, Watson considered leaving him for a while longer, after all sleep was much needed. However this decision soon became irrelevant when his attention was drawn to a loud knocking at the front door. In the hallway below a jangle of keys and a click of a latch were followed by the exchange of familiar voices. Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson and…_Oh Lord_…..

Gently shifting the arm that pinned him, Watson rose from the bed and darted across the room, hastily re-buttoning his collar and shirtsleeves.

His fiancé had a wonderfully understanding nature, however he was not a complete fool. To discover her future husband in such a locale and state of dishabille, however innocent, would be testing her fine qualities to their limits. Something he was not prepared to do at such a critical juncture in their relationship.

He took his waistcoat from the chair and pulled it about his shoulders, casting a final glance towards his sleeping patient before exiting the room and drawing the door softly closed behind him.

-oooOooo-

Sherlock Holmes was roused from sleep by hushed voices emanating from the adjacent room. Ignoring the sharp retort from his temple, he turned and smoothed his hand across the Watson-shaped indentation in the mattress at his side, feeling the warmth beneath his palm. He let it rest there for a moment and listened. It did not take long for him to deduce the necessary, nor to rise from his bed and swiftly dress. He took a moment to pause before the mirror and admire the dark bruise and regimental stitches at his brow. He raised a comb to arrange his hair into a less distressed formation and, once respectable, entered the lounge with characteristic flourish.

'Holmes!' his friend exclaimed, leaping to his feet from the sofa.

'Good morning Watson' the detective replied with an air of nonchalance.

The Dr looked alarmed. 'This is…' he began anxiously, indicating towards the woman perched at his side.

'The future Mrs Watson' Holmes said 'What a pleasure'

The lady in question rose elegantly, genuine concern tarnishing her fair features 'Oh Mr Holmes!' she breathed 'What a relief! John told me what happened, how awful…'

Having regained his wits, the Dr approached his patient swiftly. 'How are you feeling Old Boy?' he asked, studying him intently.

'Absolutely Splendid' the detective replied. Though sharp eyes returned his gaze, the Dr appeared unconvinced. 'As you are aware my dear fellow, I have carried out considerable research on the matter, and I can now conclude that a swift left hook is, without doubt, the most effective remedy for insomnia'

'I certainly do not recommend…' the Dr warned, fearful that such a remedy would be employed in the future.

'I deduce you brought me home'

'I…' Watson hesitated, taken aback by the questioning tone.

'From the Pimlico Ballet' the detective clarified, employing the agreed code.

'No need for that Old Fellow - Mary knows where we were' Watson replied.

'I see' Holmes sniffed. 'This is not the usual result you understand' he said, turning to Mary and casually indicating towards the injury 'I am simply out of practice'

There was a shuffle on the landing. 'Come in Mrs Hudson!' the detective barked.

The landlady entered, breakfast tray in hand and the aroma of coffee in her wake. Plonking the tray on the table she cast a furtive glance towards her lodger. He had removed himself from the Dr's grasp and crossed to the mantle where he stood, back turned, busying himself with his morning pipe.

'What did I tell you' the landlady whispered, crossing her arms over her chest 'Does he remember?'

'Apparently not.' Watson replied.

'A cab if you please Mrs Hudson!' the detective requested sharply.

The landlady rolled her eyes, and left the room with a mutter and a rustle of skirts.

'Holmes, I really must advise…' the Dr began.

'Not for me Mother Hen. For you.' said his friend, striking a match against the hearth and drawing on his pipe.

'Me?'

'Your nine o'clock appointment at the Florists' the detective continued casually, turning back to face the room.

Perturbed that a man with amnesia had more awareness of his schedule than he did himself, Watson turned to his fiancé to seek confirmation.

'He's right.' she said, regarding the detective with awe.

Accustomed to such expressions the detective explained. 'You will be aware Madam, I have been honoured the title of Best Man. In this faculty I have logged the relevant details. Rest assured, I take my responsibility very seriously.'

Surprised and touched by this announcement, Watson was momentarily lost for words. Torn between two duties and uncertain how to proceed he glanced at his fiancé. She smiled in understanding.

'I think it best I stay' he said, turning to his friend who now stood at the window.

'Nonsense ' He said dismissively as his bright eyes scanned the street below. 'Lilies or peonies Watson? Daisies or dandelions? These are frightful conundrums no woman should face alone.'

A tread upon the stairs heralded the return of Mrs Hudson. The door swung open. 'Come now' she instructed breathlessly 'Its not going to wait all day'

-oooOooo-

Sherlock Holmes stood at the window of 221b Baker Street and slowly drew on his pipe. He watched as the carriage pulled from the curb, heading south in the early morning traffic. Behind him the landlady busied herself.

'Taking things too far perhaps?' she said, retrieving the pistol from beneath the sofa.

He chose to ignore her; his eyes fixed upon their subject as it turned east towards the Euston road and vanished out of sight. The grey skies darkened and rain began to patter on the windowpane. He heard her cross the room.

'Leave it on the side, there's a good woman' he instructed.

After all, he would be in need of it shortly.

-oooOooo-

_Thanks to Jinx for the French quote :) And thanks to the guests who reviewed the last chapter :) _

_Sorry for the large gap between posting chapters 3 and 4 - To avoid such things in future I will only be posting when my stories have been finished, either that or stick to one-shots, at least until I become a little more productive. Please review if you have a moment. My writing course got cancelled and Im trying to improve so any constructive remarks would be great :)_


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